What 2015 has left me thankful for

Last year was exactly the kick in the arse that I needed. After fumbling around in an attempt to teach myself how to program for a good portion of 2014, I put together a rough and rudimentary version of Wildfire in March that I felt at the time was good enough to show to the masses. Looking back, this version of the game was laughably bad — so few of the mechanics and AI states were properly communicated either audiovisually or in the GUI layer, and the game only hinted at some abstract potential of being fun, rather than actually being fun itself. Regardless, it became the linchpin of a Kickstarter campaign in April which I spent the better part of the month, in my spare time, putting together. It raised $20,000 — twice as much as its target. I’m still astounded as to why. As I’ve never made a game before, I have no ludography to speak of, so I think the idea of Wildfire was strong enough to sell people on. Among the backers were game developers whose works I admire and respect, and which have directly inspired Wildfire itself. I can’t begin to describe the encouraging sense of validation that instills in me. It is energising. One backer pledged $1,500. I have no idea who this person is. I feel I should know more about them. Maybe they don’t want me to. When I think too hard about it all, the whole situation reveals itself to be beyond my comprehension. I still have little idea what I’m doing, but I’m clearly doing something right. It makes me happy.

I always planned to move into game development full time at some point, somehow. The logistics of which I hadn’t fully figured out yet. But that didn’t matter; in July, GameSpot asked me to either stop developing Wildfire or I’d lose my job, as they saw the game as a conflict of interest. So I chose to keep developing Wildfire. This was an easy decision, but it was bad timing — I was not in a financially stable position to work on the game full-time. So after years of being an editor, I became a freelance writer again — back where I started six years ago. It was both stressful and refreshing to have to justify everything I wrote, rather than write simply because I was in the position to do so.

So I made ends meet for the rest of the year, and now I’ll be starting a new job in a few days. It’s games industry, and part-time, and they’ve no problem with me working on Wildfire. It’s the perfect situation, I’m genuinely excited about it, and it’s something I’m thankful for.

What else am I thankful for? There’s a fair bit. I’m thankful for everyone who pledged money to Wildfire and made it possible. Just as I cannot begin to describe how encouraging their support is, I too am unable to describe the incredible sense of pressure and responsibility I feel. I’m guilt-ridden whenever I’m not working on the game, and that’s something I need to fix this year — being comfortable with balancing some leisure time, with work and game dev, so I don’t go crazy.

I’m thankful for the people I’m making Wildfire with. This isn’t just myself working on this; there’s a team of people with a vast range of experiences and specialties, all of whom are putting their faith in me to bring their work together into a cohesive whole. More than the 1,200+ Kickstarter backers combined, I don’t want to let these people down. Every time I’m about to feel burnt out programming I’ll get an email with some new art or music or sounds that bring me right back in.

I’m thankful for everyone in the wider gaming community who has taken an interest in Wildfire. It makes me so happy to watch a Let’s Play or a Twitch stream of someone playing through the latest build and hearing their excitement and stress and joy and frustration and elation when they realise something they want to do is actually possible with the game’s mechanics.

I’m thankful for the game development community for being so welcoming and willing to help me every time I’ve stumbled trying to learn some obscure programming quirk or even how to navigate the Steamworks backend. Games journalism, by nature of the available work to available workers ratio, sometimes feels snarky and Machiavellian; I’ve experienced nothing but kindness and support in game development.

I’m thankful for the bizarre opportunity I had to play Deus Ex with Warren Spector, on a stage, in front of over 1,000 people. This game, and its immersive sim peers, influences every one of my design decisions in however minute a fashion — but now, I feel like I’ve finally gotten the game out of my system. I don’t need to play it anymore. But I still can’t tell whether or not I offended Spector with my playstyle.

I’m thankful for my awesome housemates for understanding my mostly absent presence has been because I’ve been in my bedroom, programming, which is incredibly time consuming — and also for being there to hang out with when I’m not.

I start 2016 with the nerve-wracking realisation that this game I’m making is actually happening. It hasn’t been until today, which I spent setting up files and graphics for the Steam store page, that this has actually sunk in. Seeing Wildfire in my own Steam list, fully playable, seems like a small and insignificant piece of logistics to the outside observer, but to me, it’s huge.

I have no idea if the game will succeed. None. If I put my critical hat on and look at Wildfire in its current state, I’d say it’s “pretty good”. I’m going to spend 2016 turning it from “pretty good” to “great”, and I’m going to try to stay physically and mentally healthy doing it. I have zero regrets.